


Memories That Go Unremembered

by Neelh



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Gen, Memory Erasing Gun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5110067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neelh/pseuds/Neelh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It almost feels like suicide, taking the memory gun to his head. And he supposes, in a way, it is. He will come out of this with a part of him dead, like cutting a wilted leaf from a plant, and it will be better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the way things were not

The first time, Stanley doesn’t intend to be shot. He didn’t even realise that anyone was watching him snoop through Ford’s things, because his brother was dangerous and bringing Dipper into his weird sci-fi adventures.

So, when he sees the glowing snowglobe, he doesn’t think much of it. It doesn’t look too dangerous, and to be honest, it’s kind of pretty. And distracting. As the nebula inside swirls, Stan remains ignorant to the quiet footsteps behind him.

“Put that down,” a familiar, prepubescent voice says.

“Dipper?” Stanley looks behind him and sees the kid, backpack in hand, and with wide eyes.

“Get away from the rift,” he repeats.

Stanley looks at the snowglobe in his hand and places it back down on Ford’s desk. “That better, kid?”

Dipper nods, his brows furrowed.

“What is it, anyway?” asks Stanley, kneeling down. “Is it dangerous?”

“No!” Dipper says, too quickly. the kid was always terrible at lying, and they both know it, as Dipper immediately rectifies his statement. “Well, yes. It’s an interdimensional rift. If it’s removed from the container, it could destroy our universe.”

Stan’s eyes widen. “What’s Ford doing with it, then? Why would he keep it here?”

“Because you made it,” Dipper snaps back. “When you restarted the portal, you could have torn apart our universe there and then, but you got lucky. Ford found and contained the rift before it could grow.”

Suddenly, Dipper covers his mouth with his hand. Stan places a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “What is it, Dipper?”

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” he breathes, before speaking up. “I… You need to forget about what I just said.”

“No way,” Stan says. “If Ford’s got a death trap in the basement, I want to know about it.”

Dipper starts rifling through his backpack. “No, you can’t, I promised, Stan. I’m sorry,” he says, pulling out the strange gun that Ford had used to wipe the agents’ memories out and twiddling the dials for a few seconds.”

“Dipper, what are you doing?” Stan says, even though he knows, he understands, and he wishes he didn’t. “Dipper, please, don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper says before pulling the trigger.

Dipper, a week later, confesses to having used the memory gun, but refuses to tell Stan what for. And, to be honest, Stan doesn’t really care.

 

-

 

The second time, Stan is fully aware of what he is doing.

It was another nightmare, and he is sick of waking up at one in the morning not being able to breathe because of something that happened thirty-six years ago; sick of feeling a phantom’s hand around his neck.

The wooden floor panels are cold under his feet, but he can’t afford to wear slippers that might shuffle loudly down the hallways. He takes exceptional care to not step on any of the creaky floorboards, knowing that Ford barely sleeps as it is and could wake up at the slightest sound, knowing that habit is rubbing off on Dipper, who is normally asleep by now.

When he opens the door to the attic, it is as loud as a whisper of pain in the dark. The children are each asleep in their beds; Mabel’s braces whistling like a winter wind through an old car and Dipper snoring gently.

He doesn’t particularly want to rummage through Dipper’s bag – who knows what the kid has in there? But there is no other choice. It’s where the memory gun is always stored when it’s not in use, and Stan can’t blame Dipper for wanting a form of defence at all times like Mabel and her grappling hook. To be honest, it’s just basic survival instincts, like Stanford and his weird sci-fi guns and Stanley himself and his actual guns. Something tells him that it isn’t normal for twelve-year-olds to need that kind of security, and the thought is quickly pushed into the back of his mind.

He finds the memory gun fairly easily. It’s stashed within easy reach if Dipper’s ever in danger, with the handle ready to be pulled out. Stan would be proud if he wasn’t preoccupied with entering words into the gun with clumsy hands.

It almost feels like suicide, taking the gun to his head. And he supposes, in a way, it is. He will come out of this with a part of him dead, like cutting a wilted leaf from a plant, and it will be better.

“Fuck you, Ray,” he growls quietly before pulling the trigger.

He doesn’t have that nightmare again

 

-

 

The third time is a month later, when the twins have left Gravity Falls and Stan is left alone in a house with someone who really couldn’t care less.

He had filched the memory gun from Dipper just before the boy left with Mabel. Dipper barely noticed Stan slide the gun into his jacket pocket before ruffling the kid’s brown hair.

It wouldn’t be safe for a newly-minted teenager to go around with a memory gun, Stanley reassures himself. He really is really doing the world a favour. Who knows what a teenager could do with something that erases memories? Well, probably something involving five frogs, the Declaration of Independence, and a fun-size Snackers bar, but nevertheless, Stan makes these rationalisations in his head.

For the past three weeks, the gun had sat in a drawer with all of his other weapons, waiting to be used. And when Stan can’t stop thinking about prison, he erases _Colombian jail_ from his mind, forgetting Jorge and Rico and writhing in pain on the floor because he’s just been fucking _stabbed_.

Stan looks in the mirror and smiles a genuine smile.

 

-

 

The fourth time is erased by the fifth time, and the fifth erased by the sixth, leaving him without memories of Crampelter, the summer of 1974 to autumn in 1977, and with no inkling of any suicidal urges. It becomes some sort of disgusting game in his head. Whenever he can’t sleep, he erases something. When Ford’s glare of disapproval and disappointment feels like a brand of shame in his stomach that is almost as painful as the one on his shoulder, he erases something.

As time goes on, he enters bigger and bigger things into the gun.

 

Zombies

Perpetual motion machine.

Mexico.

Mind-control tie.

The Fourth of July, 1982.

 

-

 

One time, he thinks Stanford sees him, sitting on his bed in his underwear, twisting the dial of the memory gun until it created words. He hears the creak of floorboards, an intake of breath, and the same person leaving. To be honest, it couldn’t be anything or anyone other than Stanford, since there was only one other person who would be in the house during spring. As Stan wipes the fact that Mabel and Dipper didn’t trust him – and they had a right not to, since he lied to them so much – he make a mental note to erase the memory gun from Ford’s mind.

Of course, he forgets to do that, and doesn’t need any help from outside sources. Distantly, Stan knows his mind is unravelling, but he ignores that as well.

 

-

 

Portal.

 

Filbrick Pines.

 

Weirdmageddon.

 

-

 

And one night, he dials in two words. A name, in fact, belonging to the worst person he can think of. His hands shake with anger, and his eyes are blurry with tears, but he knows that it will be okay, because if it isn’t, then everything he has put himself through will be for nothing. The pain of coping with the gaping blankness in his mind is overwhelming as he raises the memory gun to his temple and pulls the trigger.

 

In the darkness, the glowing words on the screen of the gun fade slowly, leaving no trace that they ever existed.

 

That is how he forgets Stanley Pines.


	2. of times that you never knew

Stanford knew that his brother hadn’t aged well compared to him. The man’s skin is a lot more lined, his hair thinner and greyer, and in all honesty his nose is weird.

And it was normal for old people to forget what they had been told a week or so ago, though loss of long-term memory was most likely due to Alzheimer’s disease.

For a couple of months, Ford argued with himself internally about whether or not to share that information with his brother. How was he supposed to tell his estranged twin that he still lives with that he most likely has a degenerative disease that will eventually kill him? How was Ford supposed to ask Stan if they could talk, if only to find out whether or not he had the disease and possibly to try and repair their relationship, if Ford was correct and his brother really _was_ slowly dying.

He had tried lightly knocking on the door and waiting for Stan to answer, but there was no response, so he opens the door and entered, ready to speak.

He gasps at the scene in front of him before slamming his hand over his mouth in fear of being discovered. Like a startled animal, Ford leaves the room, trying to stop himself from quivering until he gets to his room and starts to sob drily, before picking up his new phone. He no longer marvels at the touch screen and lack of external wiring as he opens the menu and selects one of four contacts.

It only rings for a few seconds before it is answered with a bleary and nondescript sound.

“Dipper, I’ve found out where your memory gun is.”

 

-

 

Breakfast the next day is possibly the most awkward that it had been since the day that the twins had gone home. Ford can see in Stan so many side effects from the gun, from the confusion over which hand to use the knife and fork in to the unsteadiness of his hands.

“Why did you do it?” Ford says, after finishing his unbuttered slice of toast.

Stan grunts around a mouthful of scrambled eggs and shrugs, avoiding eye contact.

Ford narrows his eyes. “Speak to me, Stanley. You need to talk.”

“What about?” Stan snorts. He picks up his plate, having finished eating, and walks over to the sink, dragging his feet. He turns on the tap, which screeches in protest, and begins to swill off the plate.

“You know damn well what I mean,” says Ford, his voice lowering to what was almost a growl. “So you’d better tell me about why you’re erasing your memories.”

“Because I want to forget,” shrugs Stan.

Ford scowls at his brother’s back. “Why are you making this so difficult, Stanley?” he sighs. “Just tell me.”

There is no response. A bit of water splashes over the edge of the sink, and it slowly permeates into the wooden floorboards.

“Stanley, what’s so bad that you want to forget it?”

Stan turns around, and Ford finds that at some point he has stood up. His fists are clenched, five fingers wrapped around a thumb; and his teeth grit together, making his ears ring.

“I don’t know,” Stan says, his voice so low Ford has to strain his ears to hear. Then, Stan speaks again, this time with a loud, deranged grin. “I don’t _know_! I… I think it was Dipper who used it on me first, and then, I thought, what the hell? Why not just forget the things I need to! Because I remember that before, I hurt a lot. At least, I think I did. But now, it’s like… I erase something, and it’s a huge weight lifted from my shoulders. It’s like being on a fucking cloud! It feels… I remember something else feeling like it, but it was bad so I forgot it! And I… I don’t care. I don’t care that my mind is unhinged as shit, because I’m actually fucking _happy_!”

Just as suddenly as it arrived, Stan’s grin falls, and he leaves the kitchen, stumbling like a sleepy cartoon character chasing something.

Ford watches him leave, and stares out of the door for a few minutes afterwards, until the sink starts overflowing. He stands and continues washing up from where Stan left off.

 

-

 

Ford tries to ignore it. When Dipper and Mabel call, he steers the topic away from Stan. When there is a light on in the middle of the night, he stays in his bedroom. When he hears Stan laughing hysterically, poorly disguising his loud sobs, Ford covers his ears and goes back to his book.

 

-

 

Stan doesn’t leave his bedroom for three days.

Well, he might have, but Ford hasn’t heard any water running or floorboards creaking. Then again, the shack has never been reliable in its capacity for creating and muffling noise. Nevertheless, Ford finds himself in front of the door, a bowl of soup in one hand, knocking repeatedly.

After ten seconds, Ford opens the door.

It’s dark inside, and in all honesty, it smells kind of like pee. Ford groans and feels around on the wall for the switch to turn on the light. It’s been thirty years since he’s been in this room, and his memory of the layout of it isn’t entirely clear. Eventually, he pats it down and flicks it on.

Stan is curled in the corner next to the chest of drawers, looking smaller than Ford ever remembers him as being. His eyes are wide, but then scrunch up in the sudden light. Stan looks around, his glasses falling off of one ear and with a deep scowl on his face, before he catches sight of Stanford and tries to leap to his feet. He fails, and clings to the drawers in order to pull himself up.

“S-Stanford!” he beams, a flicker of recognition behind his vacant eyes, and he staggers over before throwing his arms around Ford. He’s lost weight, both in muscle and fat, and Ford is struck with disbelief that he hadn’t noticed before. His arms wrap around Stan reflexively, having received a lot of enthusiastic hugs from Mabel before she returned home to California with Dipper.

After a minute, Stan pulls back, staring at Ford’s face. “Wait, you are Stanford, right?”

“Yes, what do you mean?” he tries to say, but before he can finish his sentence, Stan’s grip on his shoulders tightens.

“So you know who I am?” Stan beams. “Please, tell me! I’ve been sitting here alone for as long as I can remember and I don’t even know my own name, or if I have one. And the kids! I remember the kids, you and them are all… Please, Stanford. Please?”

Ford moves Stan to the bed, where he gently pushes his brother into a sitting position. Stan is far too pliable and giving, and simply stares at his brother with a sense of childish wonder, like a man in the desert who has finally found a lake, though is still unsure as to whether or not it is real.

“Your name is Stanley Pines,” Ford says, trying to keep his voice calm and comforting instead of screaming and shaking Stan like he wants to. “You’re my twin brother. Our… Our pa wasn’t very creative with names, so we were both called Stan.”

At the mention of their father, Stan tenses up. “The… The kids…”

Ford can tell when someone doesn’t want to hear about something – heaven knows he’s been using the same trick on the twins, but much more subtle and fluid – so he complies with the topic change.

“The boy is called Dipper, and the girl is called Mabel. They’re twins too,” Ford says, taking Stan’s hand in his own and squeezing. Stan beams at the contact, and Ford tries to muster up a smile. This new Stan is far less guarded, and the open emotions that Ford hasn’t been exposed to since the last time Dipper hadn’t slept in two days before climbing into Ford’s lap and went out like an incredibly vulnerable light.

Stan nods. “I… I remember that… They love me? They love us both.”

Ford smiles genuinely this time. “Yes. Yes, they do, Stanley. We’re their great-uncles, and they call you their grunkle.”

When Stan leans his head on Ford’s chest, Ford can hear him sniff.

“How did I forget about myself?” Stan asks, his voice thick.

Ford embraces his brother. “I don’t know,” he lies. “Come on; let’s get you to the kitchen. You must be hungry, and the soup’s gone cold.”


End file.
